The Reluctant Baker (The Greek Village Collection Book 10) (8 page)

‘So he asked the Albanian to be his son’s godfather. He had grown so trusting and fond of the man. The following winter, he allowed the man to sleep in the house when it was too cold and the Albanian thanked him for this. But one day, suddenly the Albanian said he was leaving. He had made the money he needed and must return to Albania to be with his own wife and children. The farmer was sad to see him go but drove him on his tractor to the station. They stood side by side at the station and it is then that the Albanian said, "Costa", he said, or whatever his name was. Let’s say it was Costa. "Costa", he said, "you have been a good and kind man to me. You have given me work and entrusted me to be the godfather of your child. But you are a fool." "Why so?" said the farmer. "Because”, replied the Albanian, “for the all the nights I slept in your house, if I thought you had so much as a hundred drachmas on you, I would have slit your throat as you lay sleeping and been away before it was light".’

The old man pauses for breath and effect. He does not seem to be satisfied with Loukas’ response so he explains, ‘A hundred drachmas back then was probably about ten euros now. So for ten euros, this man would have slit his friend’s and his friend’s wife and baby’s throats for that mere trifle. And this is from the mouth of the Albanian, mind you. The farmer was not saying it himself.’ The old man leans over his coffee and takes another sip.

For a moment, Loukas stares, struggling to form what he wants to express. ‘But as you were so keen to point out before you started this story, they are all liars! The foreigners. So why choose to believe this?’ Loukas finally explodes.

‘Why would the Albanian tell such a lie?’

‘It is a story, old man! It is not from the mouth of the Albanian; it is from the storyteller’s mouth. Propaganda!’

‘No, no, son. These stories were tales of what was happening around us back then, from one person to another.’

‘Twisted by the teller for a better response, time after time. It is nonsense.’ Loukas looks out of the windows, shaking his head, slowly wondering why he is even in the village anymore. Natasha is dead. Why has he not gone back to his family in Athens?

But he knows the reason: things are worse now in Athens. There is no work to be had. That, and the guilt is still there.

Ellie has no idea where she is going. Mentally, she has not been released from his grasp, his hands still on her shoulders, her eyes locked on his. Her legs move automatically, one foot in front of the other. Bearing neither left nor right, she walks straight across the square and then up a narrow lane flanked either side with stone walls. Those lips!

And how magical it feels. Thousands of miles from home, the sun’s heat that permeates her bones, the dry earth, the sparkling sea, all of which turn common events, like bumping into someone, into a dream. A wonderful dream.

But she should pull herself out of this fantasy. Marcus is, after all, at home waiting for her. Marcus! A shiver runs down her spine, which causes her eyebrows to raise. She has never had that reaction to the thought of him before. A touch of sadness maybe for what they once had, and, if she can bear to be honest with herself, it really was only the once, and so quickly lost, but never a shiver. The tremor seems to have something to do with his age. It’s ironic, as his age was part of the attraction originally. It certainly attracted Penny Craig and Rebecca Slater before her. The thrill of him being their teacher.

Loukas’ skin was so smooth, tanned. His sleeveless t-shirt and wrap-around apron crisping his outline. When he held her, his shoulder muscles showed strata and there was a dip between his shoulder bone and that muscle that goes from his neck into his back. So deep, she could have drunk wine from it. Marcus’ skin is slack; he is not one to exercise. In fact, he no longer even kneads his clay like he did back at school. She can almost smell the art room. The gum and glues, the damp clay, traces of school dinners.

Penny and Becky giggled as Marcus’ dexterous hands worked and pushed the lump of clay into a rhythm. He generally had a routine in their lessons. The majority of the kids working at their own project were left to get on. But Marcus would start the kneading on their table, get their attention before cutting and slapping it into round balls and then slipping onto the seat of the wheel. He would kick it into gear like it was a motorbike and throw the clay so adroitly into the centre of the spinning disc. Then Penny and Becky would huddle closer together, excluding her, whispering behind cupped hands as Marcus sprinkled water onto the clay and drew it up into a tower, wet and smooth, before pushing it down flat again. The liquid and the earth turning to a slurry over his fingers.

‘Smooth strokes,’ Marcus explained. ‘Even pressure and smooth strokes.’ Penny and Becky giggled. ‘The idea is to release any trapped air pockets. It’s all about release.’ The girls’ giggling increased.

Ellie didn’t really get it back then, not totally. She would feel more sure what she was thinking was right if someone would confirm it for her.

‘Penny, you know when Mr Cousins throws his pots?’ Penny started to giggle even before her question was out that break time. Becky joined in.

‘Listen El, if you don’t get it, you don’t get it. It’s not something that can be explained. ‘I think Ellie’s a bit of a "late bloomer", as my mum would say.’ And the pair huddled together, excluding her again.

‘Slow, more like.’ Ellie looked up to see a boy who was always hanging around with Becky and Penny. As he passed, he made prolonged eye contact with Becky, who grinned in return, her head turning to watch him swagger down the corridor, jumping to touch the light bulb halfway along, looking back to check if Becky was still watching.

She didn’t really know what ‘late bloomer’ meant either back then, not fully. She does now. Now she can see she was a bit young for her age maybe, certainly not as advanced as those two, but then with her father being a vicar and no television or Internet allowed in their house, let alone mobile phones, it wasn’t really surprising. How much she has learnt in this last year!

The biggest mystery back then was when Penny and Becky went into the store cupboard with Mr Cousins, as she knew Marcus to be then. She only had a half-formed idea as to what, in the store cupboard, could cause so much laughter. There was one obvious thought, but surely they weren’t doing that! But then, why had she not been allowed in too?

She felt she had purposefully been left out that time, but she always felt a bit left out, really. That was why, when it was her turn to be invited, she went into the store cupboard with him, too. Only she was on her own that time.

The lane Ellie is on is climbing now. The tufts of what once would have been grass up the centre are burnt brown and dried with the sun. Either side, the white stone walls are thick with years and years of paint and have no edges. They are smooth as though they are made of clay. To her right is a gate with a wooden crate or something fixed to it as a letter box, its sloping roof made out of the front of an old drawer, the metal handle that is still attached glinting in the sun. By the stone gateposts, the dried grass is longer and has crumpled to the ground. Something small rustles in its cool shadows. Ellie’s hands come up to cover opposite shoulders. She is burning, but it is hard to care as the warmth of the sun on her skin is so sensuous.

She keeps climbing until the lane peters out and pine needles cover the barren earth under the trees that crown the hill. The tops of the trees hiss quietly as if unfelt breezes stir them. Her footfall is cushioned and there is a hush, only the occasional buzz of a bee passing her. It is the perfect place to sit. The view of the village below her, the distance diminishing the houses to a toy town, the people to insects. Beyond the village, the plain stretches until it becomes misty with distance and shimmers in the heat and, far away, what could be a mirage of purple mountains. The regimentally lined orange and olive groves patchwork the plain’s entirety. Handkerchiefs of order laced together to blanket the earth down to the sea. It is like something out of a book, or one of the
National Geographic
magazines that Marcus collects. The ones that date back nearly twelve years to when he was twenty, as he has proudly told her.

Loukas won’t read anything like the
National Geographic
. He will read a music magazine, or something about bikes. He probably doesn’t have time for reading.

But the image of him distorts as she remembers his eyes rimmed with dark lashes, his muscular shoulders. The chances are, someone with his looks will be like one of those boys who laughed along with Penny and Becky when the whole Marcus thing kicked off. School felt so hostile, an emotional minefield, no matter how carefully she trod. If someone had asked her before the event, she would have said it would have made her really popular. Penny and Becky used to joke and brag about their store cupboard ‘ordeals’ in the sixth form common room and everyone would laugh or pretend to be shocked. So why, when she did it, did they just stare at her? The boy that hung around with Penny had the audacity to ask her if she knew what she was doing. She had thrown her head back and laughed. How stupid did they think she was?

Stupid enough to not really know what she was doing at all until it was too late and stupid enough to get caught, was the answer. If it had been Penny or Becky they would have turned it around and it would have been put across as daring or brave or grown up or something. But it was Penny and Becky who delighted in asking her what possessed her to go so far. They, after all, had only teased, played like they were going to but then left the silly old man hanging. Pervert that he was. What was she thinking?

Here, with the pine trees wrapped around her, blanketing her from the world, the sun kissing her forehead and the whole world at her feet, she allows the thought that has been coming and going recently to rise to the surface. Did she do the wrong thing in marrying Marcus? Did she ever have a choice?

Ellie recognised the boy who opened the storeroom door. He was not in her year, but his mother arranged the flowers at church. It was not long before the news spread all over the school.

She returned home that night terrified of the ordeal that awaited her. They wouldn’t give her the chance to explain her side of the story. Certainly Father would be quick to condemn. But there was an eerie silence as she walked through the door. She waited for Father to start as they sat down for dinner, but no words came. Her initial thought was that they were too angry to speak but after the first course, it occurred to her that they didn’t know.

They finished dinner and she was washing up, Mum drying when Father went to take a phone call in the hall. He never spoke loudly on the phone, always as if he was talking to a bereaved parishioner—hushed, soft—and this time was no different.

The click of the receiver as it was returned to its cradle sounded louder than normal, his step across the hall more deliberate. He stood in the kitchen doorway waxy faced, stiff limbed. Then he exploded.

‘For the love of God, Ellie, have we not brought you up better than this?’ Ellie rinsed the plate slowly, her wet fingers creaking across its surface, making her teeth jar. ‘He is your teacher, for God’s sake.’ His words lost their enunciation as his wrath grew and Ellie picked out fragments. ‘This behaviour … inappropriate … Immoral …’

When she could bring herself to look at him, all she could focus on was the spittle on his lips and the white flecks in the corner of his mouth. His face was bright red and she felt hers drain white. She was going to faint and he was going to explode. The whites of his eyes glowed, bloodshot, she picked out the word ‘congregation’. She always seemed to come second to his congregation. Mum stood quickly to take his arm, stroking, soothing, imploring him to calm down.

‘Remember your heart condition,’ she implored of her husband. ‘Tell me dear, tell me calmly. What has she done now?’ Ellie slumped, hearing Mum talking as if she were not in the room.

Father whispered into Mum’s ear the things that had been told to him on the telephone, which were too sinful to speak out loud. As he hissed his words, Mum’s face drained ashen, her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open. With quick movements, she patted Father’s hand, her eyes darting across the carpet and back. Finally she cleared her throat.

‘Right.’ Mum’s mouth was a thin, tight line, the skin under her left eye twitching as she commanded attention. ‘I have no doubt, no doubt…’ Her voice was quiet but her words clearly emphasised. ‘That there will be no fuss.’ She looked from Ellie to Father. ‘No fuss,’ she repeated so quietly, both of them leaned towards her slightly, straining to hear her. ‘Mr Cousins, Marcus,’ she corrected herself, ‘will have good intentions. Marriage will be…’ The two words drawn out, accompanied by hard eye contact with them both, ‘the next step. He will come round to tea and, if necessary, I will have a word.’

Father’s shoulders dropped and the colour slowly returned to his cheeks.

With that, normal life at home resumed, almost. Conversation was reduced to close-lipped minimalism, evening prayers were extended, and a bible was left open by Ellie’s bed with passages highlighted. Decency would be restored by the force of Mother’s will, with Ellie as the sacrifice.

Then there was the scare.

‘Oh…’ Under the pine trees, Ellie searches for a swear word, one that’s not too bad but will still express her feelings. ‘Bugger!’ she finally ejects.

The scare was the final blow. In her year, everyone seemed to be relishing the whole incident and she even started to get funny looks and whispers behind her back from the younger kids. There was gossip about Marcus being pulled up in front of the head and, after a few of days of his absence, it was on everyone’s lips that he was suspended from teaching ‘until further notice.’ There was talk of the police being brought in. Some of her classmates looked at her with pity, and others just sniggered. Penny and Becky created the biggest distance they could from her, playing down their history of exchanges with Marcus and focusing on her. She felt very alone.

The scare came only days later, when she found she was late. For three days which felt like a lifetime, she waited, told no one, and, then, she used a public phone to call Marcus. He was not pleased to hear from her and almost sounded like he was blaming her for his suspension. But she managed to persuade him to meet her in the public library in Bradford.

‘You’d better have a really good reason for this,’ he greeted her. ‘If I’m seen with you, I will never be able to sort this all out.’

For some reason, she thought it would be easier to tell him face to face, but the laughter that always showed in his eyes was not there and his sideways smile was nowhere to be seen. He was unshaven and the square of his jawline was hidden in a greying, prickly-looking fuzz.

‘I have. We have,’ was all she managed.

‘Well?’ He began to run a finger along the spines of the art books as if that was more interesting.

‘I think maybe three of us have.’ Clumsy, but none of the right words would come out of her mouth.

‘Three?’ His forehead lowered over his eyes, which darkened.

Her lips sealed shut. If she said anything else, she would cry. Her left hand lifted to rest and rub circles on her flat stomach. His brow lifted and his eyes grew wide at this, and the horror that contorted his face before he took control said it all. With rigid arms rustling against his jacket, he disappeared down the Art History aisle. After a slight delay, she followed, but he wasn’t there. Nor was he in the Fine Art section or in Modern Sculpture. After a couple of minutes of weaving between book cases, she slumped at one of the central study tables, where she wept silently. She had been crying for what felt like an age when a man with steel-framed glasses, a whole table away, looked up from his thick leather-bound book and glared disapprovingly. She had no one to turn to in the world.